


Neverland

by pied_r_piper



Category: Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Digimon OTP Week 2017, Parenthood, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_r_piper/pseuds/pied_r_piper
Summary: Everyone grows up, including parents.





	1. Neverland (Iris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing good is supposed to happen to him. [hiroaki x susumu]

**Prompt** : **“Your Friendship Is Precious”**

* * *

Ishida Hiroaki takes a minute to consider the different scenarios that could occur. None are particularly favorable, but, to be fair, he’d never been able to make up something good when it came to plausible futures starring himself. In his experience, bad follows him everywhere, the loyal dog that it is.

At the moment, knowing this time bad has followed him to something that was supposed to be good, his fingers go burrowing into the pockets of his trench coat, searching clumsily, heavy-handed. The relief that accompanies the curl of those stubby digits over the little package does wonders to his mood, as it usually does, but then it’s gone again, vanishing the second his hand digs into the paper carton and feels nothing but air.

With a groan, he presses his eyes closed, coughs into a clenched fist, and then strikes the hand against the door once, and then twice. It’s answered quickly, like they’d been waiting for him.

Yagami Susumu shields his eyes from the flickering streetlight, its height measured to direct its sharpest rebuke straight into the face of anyone trying to leave the flat at this time of night. If only such a violent blinding had worked on certain inhabitants, and then neither of them would be in this present mess.

“Oh, Ishida,” says Susumu once his tired eyes have adjusted. “Good evening.”

“Sure,” is the older man’s immediate response, and he regrets it at once. To make up for the lackluster greeting, he sticks out his hand, but both are taken aback when he opens his fist to see the lighter still trapped between his fingers, crutch that it is.

“Sorry,” he stammers, moving to pocket it again. “Thought I could—but then ran out—and forgot I—,”

“Oh, I’ve got some,” Susumu blurts out, in an epiphany.

The promise is tempting, and Hiroaki’s desire is far too plain. Hiroaki steps out of his shoes, politely trying to contain his awkward, bulky frame in the crowded, tiny space of the Yagami family home. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his body, what to do with the way he’s intruded into this picture, and on such pretenses. It feels wrong. _He_ feels wrong, here, a conviction that only grows as his dark gaze sweeps over framed wall photographs charting the happy timeline of a happy family. He scratches his palm with his thumb, his other hand thumping lightly against his leg, and forces himself forward, peering around the corner and into the kitchen.

Susumu is opening all the cabinets, and leaving them open, too, muttering to himself as he goes. “I keep a pack in here, somewhere. Yuuko hates smoking, so I have to hide it behind the spices because God knows she’d never look there….” He trails off, head disappearing straight into one of the far right cabinets, and then emerges, holding the small white carton high above his head. “Ta-da!”

Hiroaki is not quite sure what his reaction should be (does he want applause? gratitude? a politely accommodating _Please don’t worry about me_?), so he decides not to react at all, staring blankly instead.

Susumu misreads this expression and lowers his hand, feeling guilty about his unchecked spontaneity. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he jerks his head over at the balcony, “Shall we?”

They pass through a homely little living room, walking around the overindulged couch and the stained coffee table. Susumu opens the floor-length sliding windows, motioning for his guest to step outside first. There are two folding chairs tucked into one corner, and a couple of flower pots and a watering can in the other, while the crisp evening breeze makes the home-grown blossoms quiver in their tended homes.

He takes the chair farthest from the doors, closest to the balcony wall, leaving the other for Susumu, who hands him the box as he sits down. It’s expert fingers, working out of habit, that free two rolled cigarettes and brings one to his lips, eager, and hands one to his host. Susumu accepts, smiling a little, but Hiroaki’s one-track mind is focused on the lighter, cupping the flame and drawing in a full, greedy intake in one effortlessly smooth motion. Susumu watches his shoulders sink at the feel of it, as Hiroaki relaxes for the first time, probably, however briefly, since he’d made that phone call earlier that day.

Gruff in his self-centered rush, Hiroaki now hands over the lighter, which Susumu fumbles with a little, fingers slipping twice on the little pedal before the flame strikes. His teeth bite down hard on the end of the cigarette, breathing too sharp and at the wrong time, earning, instead, a gulp of smoke and a hacking cough.

Hiroaki raises an eyebrow, speaking lowly, “You don’t smoke, do you?”

Meek, Susumu shakes his head, balancing the cigarette between his fingers and gingerly taking a far more cautious, practiced puff. He still coughs, eyes watering, but hopes it’s at least a cooler, manlier sort of wheeze this time. “Not for years, as you can probably tell just from that.” And he jabs a finger at the carton that Hiroaki still holds, the latter noticing only then the brand printed along the top. It’s newer, aimed at a demographic the pair of men had long since outgrown. “If I know my son, Taichi found my stash a while back and has been storing his own in place of the old ones, thinking he’s pulling one over on me.”

“Taichi smokes?” He’s surprised, the picture making no sense in his head. Is that his fault, too?

Susumu holds up his palms in a gesture of uncertainty. “He must have tried a few times.”

Hiroaki studies the man’s drawling, unperturbed shrug. “I guess I thought you’d squash the first sign of that kind of behavior.”

“Kids have to make their own mistakes,” and he pauses, frowning a little, “which, I guess, brings us to today.”

He nods, scratching his palm again, nervous. “Yeah.”

“I appreciate you calling me at work. If Yuuko had picked up at home, it’d be a whole different mess.”

“’Course,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on the chair.

Susumu leans back, face tilted up, running his free hand under his chin slowly. “You know, I’ve been trying to remember my first beer. Or, rather, the first time _I_ got caught with beer. And I can’t.”

“I do,” says Hiroaki, looking around now for something to tap the ash off. Susumu notices his pause, realizes the need, and hastily retrieves an unused flower pot saucer, sliding it towards the other man with his foot. “But I was younger than them now. Hung out with the older kids, you know, did what they did. I didn’t exactly have many friends in my year.” He moves his hand to the back of his neck, flicking the itch under his ear. “Got a real good beating at home that night, that’s for sure.” Then his eyes widen and he crams the cigarette between his lips again, forcing himself silent.

Susumu, for his part, doesn’t acknowledge the remark, of the memory that filters through it so raw. He only nods, rocking forward on his chair and then back again. “Yeah, it used to be real hard getting finding out how to even get your hands on a few cans. We had to be real creative.”

He glances up, staring past the man’s shoulder and into the darkened living room, spying the light glowing from the hallway where the bedrooms were. “They didn’t have to look too far, did they?”

“I don’t blame you, Hiroaki.”

Now that’s something he hasn’t heard in a long time, or deserved in even longer.

Susumu smiles, “Kids have to make their own mistakes. If it wasn’t over at yours, it would have been here, or at another friend’s place, or even somewhere else. Who knows?”

“Yeah, well,” and Hiroaki takes a deep breath, the lump growing, “I’ll tell Yamato to stop coming ‘round here, and that he can’t bring Taichi over without me home. He won’t be going anywhere for a while.” He hesitates, then spits out, “He shouldn’t have gotten Taichi into trouble like this.”

There’s a beat of silence—and then a shout of laughter so loud and so sudden that it’s Hiroaki nearly drops his cigarette. Susumu heaves a shuddering gasp, slapping his knee and wiping his eyes. “Are you kidding me? If anything, _my_ kidiot of a son is the one that ropes _yours_ into all this rebellious teenage bull. I can _guarantee_ you that’s what happened, what _always_ happens when one of Taichi’s friends’ parents calls me up at work.”

Stunned, Hiroaki closes his mouth, casting a hand across the back of his neck. “But, Yamato—,”

“—is Taichi’s saving grace.” His smile is wider, kinder. “You got lucky, you know, with him.”

He looks down again, bringing the last drag to his lips with shaking fingers.

“I never had a best friend, growing up,” says Susumu after a moment. Hiroaki doesn’t raise his head, but he still listens, attentive, and a bit surprised by the admission, given who's speaking. “Not anybody I could really, truly count on. Not anyone who I’d do anything for, not until Yuuko. But that's not quite the same, you know? A best friend, at their age, makes a world of difference growing up. Taichi wouldn’t be who he is without Yamato.”

He quietly puts the finished butt out on the ceramic saucer, wiping his mouth. “Yeah. I don’t know how he turned out like that.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

He meets his gaze at last, and Susumu smiles. “You’re the cool dad.”

He’s floored, yet again, by this revelation. “I’m the what?”

Susumu tries not to roll his eyes, more amused than jealous anymore. “Oh, you know you are. Taichi hasn’t stopped talking about you _once_ since you let them stay in your on-air booth when you broke that election scandal, or got them passes to the amusement park before it opened, or let them drive your truck around the grocery store parking lot.” He shrugs, because he can’t exactly blame him for any of the idol-worshipping with that record of achievement.

Hiroaki’s still not sure what’s happening. “But you’re—,”

He waves his hand in mock dismissal. “Seriously, you’re sort of a legend in this house, and your son is no different. No matter the things they get up to, I know it’s all right because they’ve got each other, and that Yamato learned all that fairness and hard work and loyalty from you. And if that’s what he’s learning from you, and passing on to my kid, well—you know, then it’s good.” He nods affirmatively, resolute. “If we were in high school, I’d be dying to be your friend, too.”

And Hiroaki sighs, his mouth curling into a genuine smile. “Well. I guess, then…same here.”

Susumu thumps his knee, raising his chin. “Then it’s settled. We’re friends.”

Hiroaki shakes his head. “Okay.”

The younger man leans forward, eyes narrowed, and nods his chin inside the apartment again. “First act of friendship: let’s wait to deliver their punishment, yeah? Really make ‘em sweat it out?”

“Oh, definitely,” he agrees, and Susumu claps his hands, rubbing his palms with an exaggerated cackle. He grins back in spite of himself, and wipes his mouth again, out of habit, as though he had to wipe the smile off before it faded, before he could remember good things weren't supposed to happen to him. 

Susumu doesn't let him, hand on his shoulder. "Come on. Let's watch the game."


	2. Neverland (Lilac [Purple])

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lifetime of regret, as distilled into the wrong cup of coffee. [toshiko x haruhiko]

**Prompt** : **“The First Emotion of Love”**

* * *

Takenouchi Toshiko opens the door to the smell fresh coffee, the distinctly comforting aroma doing its trick to perk her languid interest. More than a little relieved, she stores her umbrella in the small plastic holder by the entrance before peeling off her pink raincoat, hanging it to dry and exchanging it for a matching apron on the next peg. Securing the strings tightly around her waist as she walks into the back of the store, she announces, “Thank you for the coffee, Sora. I can already tell this day is going to be—,”

He looks up, mid-sip, gulping a scalding mouthful in his surprise. 

“—a long one.”

Takenouchi Haruhiko coughs, wiping his mouth quickly. “I let myself in,” he explains, and it’s the return of that habit of his, of telling her things she more than knows, that brings that familiar rush of exasperation crashing back. 

“Here,” he interrupts her again, this time pushing a freshly poured mug across the small counter by the sink towards her, “made it just how you like. No cream, two sugars.” He’s beaming, bright natured and contented, and she’s thinking about how easy it is for him to keep tracing the lines between them like they’d never broken even once, even at all. 

“That’s not how I like my coffee.”

“Hm?” 

She blinks quickly. “I don’t like cream. Just sugar.”

He looks down at the cup, smile twitching stiffly at the corners of his thin mouth. He starts to speak, but she can’t bear it anymore, so she just stammers, “But it’s fine. Thank you,” and picks up the drink, holding the warm vessel between her hands. 

He’s uncomfortable, but not defeated, never defeated. Instead, he leans back against the sink and taps a finger on the rim of his own mug, pressing forward as though nothing had ever gone wrong. “Anyway, I got Sora’s message, and I thought it would be good for us to talk first. Early,” he adds, as though the sun weren’t just yawning through the drawn shades, searing a bright orange sunrise into the store’s backroom. 

“That’s probably a good idea,” she admits. 

“So,” he begins, nose wrinkling, “…what do you think about all this?”

“Well,” she says, a deep sigh following the opening pause, “I think she’s very smart, and she can make her own choices, and she has always had her wits about her.”

“You trust her on this, then?”

“Of course, I do,” she says, surprised that he might not. “Don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m asking you!” he exclaims, palm gesturing upward. “I mean—what do we really know about this boy? How did they meet? How long has this been going on? Shouldn’t we be meeting  _ his _ parents? What do they do? What does he study? What’s his reputation? What’s  _ their _ reputation? How is—?”

“Haru!” Her voice is sharp, and he stops at once, recognizing that tone all too well. “You need to stay calm. It is one boy.  _ One _ . Out of hundr—,”

“Oh, there is no way to finish that sentence and still expect me to be calm,” he says smoothly, darkly, and in spite of herself, she’s grinning, hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. Brown eyes twinkle through thick, long lashes, a ringlet of hair escaping across her forehead, and for a moment he’s slipped himself right out of the overprotective, worried father role and into the clumsy, distant partner one instead. He’s certain they’re not incompatible positions, but then again, his track record isn’t particularly promising. No, it’s better, Haruhiko has learned, to compartmentalize feelings from actions, and wishes from fears. He’s too old, and too awkward, for anything else.  

This, of course, is how he sees himself, but it’s not, as it turns out, how Toshiko sees him. 

The funny thing is that they’ve never managed to admit this to each other. 

“I think,” she says, trying not to sound too patronizing, “one dinner with her boyfriend’s family, out of a week of dinners with us, is a fair compromise.”

“Only if she brings him over one night, too,” he says at once. “Why should we have to give up a holiday meal with our daughter if they can’t spare their son one time, too?”

There’s a level of logic to his musings that strikes her ears the wrong way, and she swallows another long sip of coffee before trusting herself to speak again. “It’s not always an equal give-and-take, Haru. Not all relationships keep a balance account.”

“I’m not saying that—,”

“It’s her first love. We should be supporting her through these emotions—,”

“Oh, they’re  _ kids _ , what do they know about love?”

“More than you, is it?”

It’s a low blow, and it hits the mark. She’s gotten good at it, recently, knowing how and where to strike, and she should be sorry. But it’s the holiday, and these are stressful times. Why does she always have to be the one minding everyone else’s feelings, and never her own first?

“He’s her first love,” she continues. She tucks back the loose ringlet back into its rightful place behind her ear, feeling more comfortable when she’s in control and collected. “Not her last. Now’s as good a time as any to get used to sharing her.”

There’s a look in his eyes she’s not quite sure how to read, because she’s never had to read it before. But it’s gone in another blink, replaced with something more familiar. He’s nodding, smiling a little, with resignation. “You’re right.”

She thinks that’s the end of it, until—

“But you could be wrong. Maybe this is her first,  _ and _ her last.”

Toshiko opens her mouth, mind blank. 

He shrugs, running his hand around the edge of his cup again. “Maybe she’s learned something we didn’t.”

The sun is warm on her face, fingers of light spreading gently over trembling lips. “What’s that?”

Haruhiko returns her gaze without blinking, only looking straight back for a long, breathless moment. And then he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

She wonders what mornings are like in other people’s homes. Do they stand in the sunrise together, too? Over cups of bitter coffee, brewed strong? Do they fuss over their children’s life milestones, while wondering how they had missed their own? Do they even have their own anymore? 

Or maybe they, like her, found that that it was simply easier to stop making marks in their story and start, instead, moving however they needed to keep the story going. To wake up each day and know what needed to be done, what had to be in order, what was going to come next. To be safe. To not take risks. To settle into the after-love, with the feeling like you were giving up, but too numb to do anything about it anymore. 

The mug scrapes against the counter as he pulls hers back, picking both up to carry back to the sink. “Long day, you said, right?”

“Right,” she murmurs, still thinking to herself. 

“Okay. I’ll get the order log open, and tidy the front of the store. The delivery usually comes in at, what, five-thirty?”

She jumps a little, glancing at her wrist watch. “Right, it does. You remember.”

That look is back, the one he saves for her, even if she doesn’t know it, even if he’s never told her that this,  _ this, this is for you _ . 

“Only the important things.”


	3. Neverland (Stargazer Lily)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She waits for him. [natsuko x hiroaki]

**Prompt** : **“I wish you were here”**

* * *

Takaishi Natsuko is at the end of her rope. This is the sixth message she’s had to leave him, and her anger is so clear she can no longer see straight. So she presses her fingers over her eyelids, breathing deep, and spits out with rage, “I’m not asking you to care about me. I just thought you’d be a bigger person about this, given the circumstances. But I guess I was wrong.” She breathes deeply, “So thanks for letting me down again. Don’t make it look so easy next time, will you?” And she smacks her palm flat on the windowsill in time with the abrupt end of the call, holding the phone over her mouth and biting down on the skin on the back of her hand until the stinging stops, and starts, again. 

“Ma’am?”

She jumps, startled, blue eyes settling on the attentive figure of the waiting room attendant standing next to her. 

“Is everything okay?”

Natsuko blushes, smoothing back her blonde hair as she nods shortly. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

The attendant hesitates before passing her a tiny, apologetic smile, turning to return to the desk where a few other hospital staff persons busy themselves over charts, billings, consultations, and visitors. She watches them all, her gaze dragging over each face in the waiting room. 

There are all kinds of people here, relatives old and young alike, sick and concerned, exhausted and anxious, all in varying degrees of stress, fear, and desperation. The air is thick with it, the energy a choking chaos of it, and the weight settles on her chest in a panic. Wrenching herself from the windowed wall, she stumbles from the room and back down the hall, hand against the side of the corridor to guide her, push her, back to the shared hospital suite. 

Takeru’s still sleeping, bundled under the sheets, his small little body shivering with every haggard breath he takes. The sight of him lying there, threaded through and so pale, cheeks and nose a flaming pink, curly blond hair sticking to clammy skin—the sight of him like this renders her speechless, weightless, all at once. 

She sits straight on the chair next to the bed, holding her phone in both hands in her lap, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and counting each one, vigilant. 

_ …one, two, three… _

She’s holding her head in her hands, silent, and he’s standing at the counter behind her, forehead pressed to the wall. 

_ …four, five, six… _

They’re outside the apartment building, standing on the sidewalk, Takeru cradled asleep to her chest and Yamato clinging sleepily to his, and he’s angrily trying to find the key that he’s probably lost yet again, and she’s begging him to keep his voice down through furious tears of her own.

_...nine, ten, eleven… _

They’re sitting at the dinner table, and Yamato’s put a piece of broccoli up his nose and made Takeru spit up his dinner at the ludicrous sight, and she’s trying to maintain some kind of composure, and Hiroaki’s poking the toddler’s cheeks as he laughs.

_ …seventeen, eighteen… _

He’s fast asleep under piles of library books, one still spread open across his chest, just under his chin, the pages on budgeting for young families carefully earmarked and studiously underlined, and she has her fingers in his thick brown hair, smoothing the strands over his forehead, whispering all the reasons why she loves him in his ear. 

_ …twenty-four, twenty-five… _

She’s looking at him, and it’s like the sun is finally rising, inside her, so bright and so clear, for the first time, because he’s smiling at her, and only at her, through the candlelight, and she knows this is it, this is the one, this is real. 

_ …thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four… _

She awakes, suddenly, to a story, and a voice, and a new day.

“'Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself. And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said: ‘Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged.’ But the prince could not restrain his admiration: ‘Oh! How beautiful you are!’” 

The voice changes, and the wheezing pauses, “Look, here’s a picture. She is pretty, don’t you think, sweetheart?” 

“Uh, huh, like a flower.” 

“Yep, just like a flower. Like a rose. That’s what we call these kinds of flowers here. See the picture?” 

“Uh, huh.”

The reading resumes. “‘Am I not?’ the flower responded, sweetly. ‘And I was born at the same moment as the sun.’ The prince could guess easily enough that she was not any too modest—but, oh, how moving—and exciting—she was!’”

A small cough: “Wait, I want to see.”

“Okay, here. Look at this picture. See her colors? And the sun here, that helps her grow. See the little prince, he’s given her water. He’s taking care of her, because he loves her, and that’s what helps her grow.”

“Like the sun?”

“Yes, sweetheart. He’s her sun.”

And she’s holding her breath, blinking quickly, watching them together, Takeru’s pudgy fingers grasping the pages of the book, curled up on his father’s lap, Hiroaki’s arms around him with the boy’s stringy blond curls just barely brushing the bottom of his stubbly chin as he leans over him, holding him close to his chest. He slides his clumsy little palm over the paper, insisting they go back to study more of the drawings, and Hiroaki lets him, hovering over the boy’s small hands, ready to rescue his unpracticed fingers if they come too close to the sharp edges, ready to protect him, ready to be there, the way he’d always promised her he would. 


	4. Neverland (Marigold)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She finds him in the kitchen, trying to make a birthday cake. [kae x masami]

**Prompt** : **“Pain and Grief”**

* * *

The sound of metal screaming against hard tiled floors jolts her upright, and for a moment all Izumi Kae can see are flashes of red light in thundering black rain. And then she blinks, and the worlds unmerge, separating out into the life she can control and would never trade, for anything, at all. 

Reaching for her robe, she throws off the heavy wool blanket and stumbles to her feet, crossing through the apartment to find him sitting, in the bright synthetic light, on the kitchen floor. “What are you doing?”

Izumi Masami is visibly shaken, taken aback by her sudden appearance. He blinks through the confetti of flour that rains down between them, the burst bag at his feet and an upturned circular metal pan beside it. He coughs, using a finger to wipe of the sheen of powder from his glasses. “I’m sorry. I woke you.”

She rubs her eyes, trying to be certain she’s seeing him there. “Were you…baking?”

He only nods, sheepish, and picks up the bag and pan as he stands again. 

When he offers no other remarks, she prods further, groggy and slow-moving. “What are you baking for at three in the morning, Masami?”

He puts the pan on the counter, checking the empty bag carefully, but she can tell his eyes aren’t moving, aren’t looking at all. “Just something small,” he mumbles, so soft she’s starting to believe she’s still dreaming. 

“A cake?” she clarifies, gazing at the assembled ingredients strewn over the countertops, the oven clock glowing orange to mark the rising temperature as it preheats, and the open recipe box in the corner by the walled telephone. “You were, weren’t you?” she answers when he won’t. “At three o’clock. On a Tuesday morning.”

He pokes the flour bag. “Except we’re out.”

She wants to point to the kitchen floor but restraints herself. “Now we are.”

But he’s shaking his head, not looking at her, still speaking low. “We were out. We didn’t have enough.” He chews on the corner of his mouth, inhaling sharply, “I should have checked yesterday. I forgot to check yesterday.”

He turns back to the refrigerator, opening the door, and then closing it hard, stalking across the tiny room to the cabinets and yanking each one open. It’s over the third slam that she calls out, “Masami, stop.”

“You don’t keep any extra flour, at all?” he accuses suddenly. 

“It’s on the list for—,”

“Then why isn’t any here?”

“I go shopping on Wednesdays, you know that!”

“Then you should have gotten it last Wednesday, because you know this Wednesday would have been too late!”

“I wasn’t planning on using any,” she snaps back, “and why is too late? Masami, answer me—what’s too late about tomorrow—?”

The handle breaks off clean in his hand, the cabinet door swinging violently back and forth, and he smacks his palm on the counter. “The cake, Kae!”

She thinks about the rain, and the police lights, and the dark, and she takes a breath, or tries to. 

“You were making him a birthday cake.”  _ Without me? _

He can’t look at her. “I make one every year.”  _ Without you.  _

There’s a trickle of crimson red on the counter now, pooling under his hand, and she walks behind him to the sink to wet a dishtowel. Taking his wrist, she turns his fingers up, pressing to stop the bleeding, the little rivers of silk red on the soft white of his palm. 

“Kae,” he says, quiet, and with pain, “Kae, I’m afraid I’m letting him down. I’m afraid he sees the three of us happy, in a family without him, and that it breaks his heart.”

She puts her hand on his cheek, holding his chin, his glasses coming askew and the lenses fogging from the tears. 

“I’m his dad, and I break his heart, every year I get farther away from him. So I need to make him a cake, and I have to be the one to do it, or else he’ll—he’ll think I’ve—he’ll think—,”

“I know,” she says. 

He pushes up his glasses with his hand, rubbing his face, and she twines her fingers with his, pulling him close, so her face can press into the crook of his neck. She kisses his throat, soft, and now he’s bending his face towards hers, lifting both arms around her shoulders, the bloodied dishcloth still twisted around his bruising hand. She kisses his neck, and his ear, and his cheek. 

“I know.” 


	5. Neverland (Hydrangea)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lifetime starts at the breakfast table. [fumiko x chikara]

**Prompt** : **“Heartfelt Gratitude”**

* * *

The first morning after he’s gone, Hida Fumiko has to press her hands over her ears just to stop hearing the overwhelming sound of his absence, holding her head tightly, until the joints in her fingers strain from the pressure and her wrist begins to ache, and she lets go. Her arms sink back to her sides, and she opens her eyes, staring straight ahead into the empty room. 

Twisting suddenly, she escapes back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her, and times each breath with each step she takes through the corridor and down the stairs, a trick she’d taught herself years ago to keep herself calm and focused in the worst of situations.  

She stops at the entrance to the living space, mid-inhale, choking back a surprised cough. 

“Um, good morning,” she stammers. 

Hida Chikara nods, his mouth full, and lifts his hand to wave at her instead. He gestures to the table, pointing at an empty chair, and she steps forward. The spread is remarkably full, teaming with selections of sweet and savory, salty and sour, piping hot and refreshingly cool, covering so much of once available space that the edge of her plate teeters ambitiously close to the edge of the table. On instinct, her hand slips forward to balance it, pushing it back as much as she can without crowding out the other dishes, cups, saucers, and bowls assembled in a mouth-watering collage. 

He swallows, using the newspaper in his other hand to point at the table. “I made breakfast.”

She means to say thank you, but it comes out, “Why?” and he sort of looks at her in wonder. 

“Because it’s breakfast time.”

They sit in silence, neither one moving first or breaking their stares. 

And then she claps a hand over her eyes, “What am I going to do by myself?”

He sits up, alarmed, because that had definitely not been the reaction he’d been expecting. “Fumiko, what—you’re not by yourself—?”

“I will be, all year! They all leave!” she bursts out and shudders harder, crying.

He draws back, sliding his fingers under the whiskers of his thick, grey mustache. He hesitates, “I won’t. I haven’t, and I won’t.”

This time she means it when she heaves, “ _ Why _ ?”

And he can’t answer her, because it would mean putting to words the sorts of feelings he’d never been quite able to share aloud, had never offered to his grandson, or even his own son. But he’s looking at her now, in shock, as she bends forward over the table with her face in her hands, her mouse brown hair falling over into the open food, thick wavy strands trailing through carefully prepared dishes that remain untouched. 

So he stands up, gently pushing her elbows off the table and nudging her upright. She sniffles as she lets him, sitting straight now with only the slightest slouch, breathing through her mouth to try to calm herself down again, too tired and in pain to care about the scene she’s made. 

He doesn’t pay it any mind. “Come on, eat while it’s still warm,” he says and begins serving her healthy-sized portions on her plate. 

She says nothing back, watching in silence as the piled selection grows higher and wider before her, feeling her stomach flip with curiosity at the sight. 

“It looks good,” she says, at last, voice hoarse. 

“Tastes good, too,” he promises.

He returns to his seat, smiling at her lightly, and picks up the paper again. Opening it wide, he pulls out one of the sheets, folding it in half, and hands it to her. “This was Hiroki’s favorite weekly column. Iori reads it, too. Sometimes we write each other letters about what we think. I haven’t written for today yet,” he adds, perfectly casual, resuming his perusing as though the little breakdown hadn’t even happened, as though this were any other day for their odd little family.

She wants to laugh, or cry. 

But she only smiles, through tears, and holds the paper like treasure. 

“Thank you,” she says.

I love you, he says back. 


	6. Neverland (Rose [Red])

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like rabbits. [keisuke x satoe]

**Prompt** : **“Ardent Passion”**

* * *

It only takes a second after she’s sat down for Tachikawa Satoe to burst out, “My, this is funny little place you’ve brought us to, Mimi, darling.”

The waiter pauses, his hands still on the back of her chair as she scoots herself happily forward, smoothing the napkin across her lap. Her daughter’s sigh is a warning sign of trouble ahead, but the waiter simply swallows whatever response he could have in the moment to serenely smile at the younger woman, and then at the older gentleman with them.

“Couldn’t agree more, dear—Mimi, this is a funny sort of get-up, isn’t it?” Tachikawa Keisuke glances about the patio with ever so discreet appraisal, wondering at the darkness of the outdoor space.

Sitting down between them, Mimi reaches up and pokes at his lenses, and he laughs to himself, quickly sliding his sunglasses off his face and pocketing them. “Oh, right!” he chirps, now much more pleased with the set-up of the restaurant. He nudges his wife as he takes his seat next to her. “Take off the sunglasses, dear, it’s much nicer without them.”

“Oh, is it?” Satoe carefully removes her own pair, blinking widely. “You’re right!” she gasps loudly, “ _Oh_ , this _place_ is _adorable_!”

Mimi has her hand over her mouth. “Mama, please—,”

“But just look at it, darling!”

“Yes, I know, I’m the one that brought you here—,”

“There’s no reason for that attitude, Mimi, dear.”

“Papa, I wasn’t! I just said that—,”

“Oh, now you two, don’t squabble! You can’t argue in a place this beautiful. You know what you should do, Mimi, love? You should bring your dates _here_ when you have to break up with them. They just couldn’t _possibly_ be so cross with you in space like this.”

“That’s very good advice, darling, isn’t it, sweetheart? You are just too clever, isn’t she, little princess?”

Mimi raises her menu quickly. “We should order soon. It’s brunch on a holiday weekend, and the kitchen is sure to get backed up with orders.”

Keisuke looks genuinely puzzled, tables turning without warning. “Then why on earth would you bring us to a restaurant that can’t handle high volume, poppet dearest?”

“Well, we don’t know that it can’t,” says Satoe, resuming her judgmental scan. She attempts a positive spin, heart clearly not in it. “I mean, I suppose it looks like it could, couldn’t it, dear?”

“But, darling, don’t you remember that funny sort of valet attendant, and how puzzled he appeared about my car? What sort of busy place can’t handle car parking?”

Mimi tries not to be critical. “That’s because he wasn’t the valet, Papa. He was the hostess.”

Satoe blinks slowly. “Dearest, is there a difference?”

“Mama—,”

“I warned you about that tone, young lady.”

“Oh, my God— _what tone_? I am literally just speaking words!”

Satoe soothes, “And I hear your words, sweetie darling, and I value your decision to use them with me in a calm voice.”

She’s about to fussily snap another petulant comeback, but then the full weight of her mother’s remark settles. She looks between the pair, confused. “Wait, what?”

Satoe beams, “Your father and I have been learning lots of useful phrases like that at counseling.”

“So eye-opening, sweetheart, it really is, isn’t it, darling?”

“Oh, yes, Keisuke, I don’t think my eyes have ever been more open—,”

“Wait, wait!” interrupts Mimi, shaking her head hard. “You two are in couples counseling? How did I not know about this?” she adds, exclaiming loudly. “ _Why_ are _you_ in _couples_ counseling?”

“Well, why wouldn’t we be, Mimi darling?” Keisuke asks, entirely surprised by her surprise. 

“Because—because—!” and she just waves both hands in both their directions, panic-stricken. “You two invented the entire concept of lovestruck! I mean, have you ever _listened_ to yourselves?”

“Oh, we’re learning to listen in all kinds of ways these days,” assures Satoe.

“Mm-hm, mm-hm,” nods Keisuke, enthusiastic. “There’s empathetic listening, active listening, engaged listening, reflective listening, critical listening. Honestly, baby, _all_ kinds.”

“My favorite is whole-person listening,” explains Satoe to a visibly flabbergasted Mimi. She turns fully towards her, grabbing her still flailing arms out of the air and clutching her hands tightly, yanking her forward across the table. “It’s when you have to embrace the other person wholly, completely take _their_ self into _your_ self, and be fully present in the story they have chosen to share with you.”

“Uh—,”

“Here, here, try with me, try with me, let’s show her,” Keisuke insists, swiveling his chair around. Satoe eagerly acquiesces, releasing her daughter’s hands and slipping hers instead into her husband’s, scooting her own chair up closer to him.

The legs scrap against the hard floor, earning more than the usual number of interrupted glances at their table, given that the volume they’d been conversing in by this point had assured they would remain, for the rest of their patronage, the center of the public’s already drained attention. Not that this had ever, or would ever, matter to the Tachikawas.

“See, Mimi baby?” Kesiuke begins narrating. “You have to look deep into their eyes, just like this, and hold them by the hands, like this, like I’m doing now, and you have to be present in _their_ space and they have to be present in _your_ space and you have to be present together in your _together_ space.”

His wife offers usefully, “It helps if you breathe together, too, that’s what we’ve learned, haven’t we, dear?”

“Yes, yes, definitely. Breathe with me.”

“And, Keisuke, I _hear_ your breathing, and I _share_ your breathing.”

“Satoe, I, too, hear _your_ breathing, and I share _your_ breathing, and I thank you for sharing _your_ breathing with _my_ breathing.”

“Oh, and I thank _you_ for—,”

“Okay, I think I got it,” says Mimi quickly, sensing the mood shifting dangerously with every deeper breath her parents take together. But it’s too late, and they’ve long since stopped listening to her, or remembering that she’s at the table, or, indeed, that they’re not alone. Their faces inch closer, breaths in perfect synchronization, eyes locked deep.

She clears her throat, raising her voice with each word of warning. “Mama, Papa, we’re in public, okay? Remember how we talked about what we _don’t_ do in public?” And then, in a final panic, “Listen—wait, please, I really think we should—okay. Okay, I’m just—right.” And she grimaces, picking up her menu and hiding behind it yet again. 

Next time, she promises to herself, her entire face a warm strawberry red, she’ll cook for them at home.  

 


	7. Neverland (Lisianthus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other chosen children have their own group chat. [shin x shuu x momoe x chizuru x mantarou x jun]

**Prompt** **: “A Lifelong Bond”**

* * *

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**Subject** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:41PM

Are you all online?? This is really serious!

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:47PM

Okay, I’ve been told by Shuu via phone call that labeling non-emergencies emergencies is ‘misleading’ and ‘dangerous’. Thanks for the rhetoric lesson, Shuu, super great timing and not at all a redirection of the matter at hand. 

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:48PM

You’re welcome.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:49PM

What’s going on, Chizuru? Everything okay?

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:51PM

Miyako’s upset and Chizuru thinks it’s her business.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:52PM

Um, yes, it is? Or am I the only who loves my sister?

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:54PM

Love =/= like.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:55PM

No one love=/= likes you, either, dickhead.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:58PM

Uh, you’re the one who added me to this chat. Actions speak louder than words, little sis.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 8:59PM

So what’s got littlest sis all worked up?

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:00PM

Her boyfriend, as it turns out.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:00PM

The fuck?

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:00PM

Oh look who suddenly cares. I thought love=/=like, hm?

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:01PM

Who’s she dating? Do I know him?

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:01PM

WAIT is it one of these two?? Is that what this chat’s about, to break it to me in public like you think that’ll stop me???

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:02PM

Is that why Shin’s not saying anything???? THE FUCK MAN

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:04PM

DON’T IGNORE ME SHIN ANSWER YOUR PHONE I CAN TELL YOU’RE ONLINE YOU’RE ALREADY IN THE GODDAMN CHAT

 

**From** : Kido Shin   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:07PM

I’m not dating that sister, Mantarou.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:08PM

WHAT THE SHIT

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:09PM

We’ll talk about that later. And she’s been seeing Ken for almost four months now, honestly, do you ever pay attention to anything?

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:09PM

Oh yeah....

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:10PM

ANYWAY, as Mantarou scrapes his misbegotten pride off the floor of his man-cave: the issue is that Miyako was really upset when she got home today, so she came to us for some advice. We told her what we thought and I think it calmed her down a little, but Chizuru’s insisting we talk about it all together.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:12PM

I do insist, because to be honest, this was about something really hard. It was about Osamu.

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:14PM

Yeah, Jyou mentioned that was coming up. When is it?

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:15PM

Friday.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:15PM

Ten years this Friday. It’s hitting him pretty hard this year, and that’s why Miyako’s so concerned.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:16PM

Oooh. Shit. Poor Ken.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:18PM

Miyako says he says he’s fine, but I guess since this is their first year as a couple, she’s worried about how to support him.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:19PM

I told her that it’s better to leave it a private matter between him and his family. 

 

**From** : Kido Shin   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:19PM

That’s good advice.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:20PM

Sure it is Shin.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:21PM

I will ban you from this chat.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:22PM

Why, I’m agreeing with him, okay?? I’m just saying that I can’t imagine what Ken’s feeling now, but it’s up to him to let Miyako know what he needs. She shouldn’t worry herself by fixating on guesswork.

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:24PM

But it’s not always easy to share what you need, even to people you care about.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:25PM

And that’s why I was so conflicted talking to Miyako about this. Like, she wanted to know if she should ask Ken if he wanted her to go with him to Osamu’s grave this year. Momoe said she think about it more carefully, but I don’t know.

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:25PM

Well, I think it’s okay to at least ask, and to make it clear to him that she’s willing to go it if he needs her.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:27PM

So that’s the thing. I don’t think she’s really willing to do that. I think she’s scared he’ll say yes, and that’s why she hasn’t asked yet. You know she would have already if she was really okay with the idea, given how impulsive she is about things.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:27PM

She gets that from me.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:28PM

WHICH IS WHY she asked us what we thought about how she should support him this year. I think she just didn’t want to say aloud how she was really feeling. She wanted us to make the choice for her.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:32PM

But it sounds like that’s exactly what happened. 

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:32PM

See, I knew it! You think so, too, then? That we should have encouraged her differently, told her to go?

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:32PM 

That’s not the whole issue. 

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:33PM 

Then what gives? 

 

**From** : Kido Shin   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:33PM

Because going would be hard on her. It’ll make her think about the three of you.

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:34PM

That’s why I wanted us to stay out of it, Chizuru. She’s too young for this. She’s not ready, and telling her otherwise would be wrong of us. 

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:35PM

Momo…do you really think that’s healthy for her? How can she support Ken through these feelings if you won’t let her explore her own fears?

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:37PM

Why should she have to? We’re supposed to protect her. That’s all she needs now.

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:39PM

Holy crap, 47 missed messages?? Let me catch up!!

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:43PM

Damn, you guys. You all really know how to keep the group chat light and breezy. 

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:44PM

Looks like most things are covered, but I guess…I mean, you know how they say that there’s not a word for the loss of a friend, the way there is for the loss of a parent or a partner? I feel like that’s because when we lose a friend, we don’t get to take on new identities like we would if we were to become orphans or widowers, or at least not in that official same way. I think the loss of a sibling is like that, which is why that pain is just beyond language. So no, nobody wants to think about what might come tomorrow. It might even be harder for us, you know, because for whatever reason we’ve got it in our heads that we’ve got to think for each other and for them, too. But the best thing we can do for ourselves and for them, for all of us really, is to be present and open to these waves of pain and loss, of happiness and joy, in whatever shape or space they take us. 

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:56PM

That’s beautiful, Jun.

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:58PM

Don’t flirt with me so openly, Shuu. 

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 9:58PM

:)

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:00PM

Anyway, I think whatever the four of you decide to do together, it’s just enough for Miyako to know you’re there, and that being there means being open to the fear that someday we won’t be. And that’s okay.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:02PM

Wow, you’re strangely good at this. Who knew that the person used to peel the sunburnt skin off her shoulder to drop into her brother’s open mouth while he was sleeping could offer such insightful commentary on sibling values?

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:03PM

Youthful transgressions.

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:03PM

That was just last year.

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:04PM

YOUTHFUL TRANSGRESSIONS

 

**From** : Inoue Momoe   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:05PM

Jun, I hear you. Thanks for sharing this. I’m just so nervous with wanting to protect her, but you’re right. These are lifelong jobs, isn’t it? 

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:05PM

They last much longer than that :)

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:06PM

Also, Daisuke’s having a little get together later this week, you know, for Ken. It sounds like all the gang will be there for him. And it’ll be at my parents’ place, so if you wanted to come, I think that would be a really nice gesture for all this. 

 

**From** : Kido Shuu   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:08PM

That’s a wonderful idea. I’d like to come. 

 

**From** : Inoue Chizuru   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:08PM

Yes, that sounds great. Thanks, Jun, and all of you for talking with us about this. It’s important to have this space, I think.

 

**From** : Motomiya Jun   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:08PM

Absolutely!

 

**From** : Kido Shin   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:08PM

I agree. Momoe and I will both be there. Thanks, Jun.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:09PM

Of course you will, Shin.

 

**From** : Inoue Mantarou   
**RE** : EMERGENCY   
**Time** : 10:10PM

WTF WHO BLOCKED ME?? 

 


	8. Neverland (Rose [Red], continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like baby rabbits. [taichi x mimi]

**Prompt** **: “Freebie!”**

* * *

Next time, she promises to herself, her entire face a warm strawberry red, she’ll cook for them at home.  

“Mimi!”

Spooked from her musings, her hand falls, eyes peeking through thin fingers.

“ _Mimi_!”

“What on earth…?” Satoe’s wiping the smeared lipstick off the corner of her mouth, staring about the restaurant patio as her husband tries to disentangle himself from her. Their daughter stares back with a blank expression. “Is someone calling you, Mimi, dear?”

“I—,”

The call grows louder. “ _Mimi, Mimi_!”

Keisuke, fully extracted and now fumbling with his collar, rises from the table, puzzled. He walks forward to look over the waist-high, ivy-covered railing that separates the restaurant from the sidewalk. Squinting in recognition, he asks absently, “Why, sugar princess, isn’t that the young man who fell asleep naked eating cream cheese out of the carton on our kitchen floor last New Year’s?”

“Papa! He wasn’t completely—oh, you mean Daisuke’s here?” She’s on her feet, scrambling forward. Her eyes brighten, grin spreading wide at the sight of her best friend skidding down the block towards them. “Daisuke! Daisuke!” she waves, and then, spying Iori running only a few paces behind him, yells back, “What are you doing here?”

He picks up speed now that he’s got her attention, gearing up to cross the street to where they are, “Mimi, wait—!”

But before she can yell back, Satoe’s up and standing at her other side, matching her eagerness. “Daisuke, darling, hello! It’s me, Satoe! Do you remember when— _oh_!” And she’s shrieking, while Iori shouts, “Daisuke, watch out!” as a car comes around the corner, pulling to a sudden stop just in time to send Daisuke flailing over the hood. He’s coughing, bug-eyed, rolling over and onto the ground, holding his side, and Iori drops to the pavement next to him.

“It’s okay—I’m okay, I’m fine— _fuck_ ,” and he keeps coughing, while Mimi can’t think to breath as the driver scrambles out. “ _Takeru_ ?” Then the passenger doors pop open: “Hikari! _Ken_? What—?”

“What are you doing?” yells Takeru, his blue eyes searing at the lumpish, moaning figure Daisuke makes sprawled prostrate on the paved road just in front of the restaurant. “You just can’t go running through the street!”

Daisuke’s rocking back and forth, gripping his elbow with his face twisted, “Man, Takaishi, this is not how I pictured you finally hitting on me one day—,”

“Are you okay? Daisuke!” Hikari’s still kneeling by his head, and Ken is helping Iori lift the man up to sit on the ground, while Takeru’s breathing deep to still his quickened heartbeat.

“What was that noise!” yells the waiter in a panic, hurtling towards their table, with Keisuke just gesturing in a panic to the sidewalk. “What’s—?”

“ _Mimi!_ ” and she’s jerking back around now, almost tottering over without her father’s arm behind her shoulders. Flying through the restaurant past bewildered patrons are Koushiro and Miyako, graceless in their frenzy.

She feels Satoe’s hands wrap around her wrist. “Sweetie darling, how many of your friends are going to be joining us?”

Before she can respond, Mimi spies yet another trio surging through the sidewalk crowds. It’s Jyou, Yamato, and Sora doing their best to be polite and steamroller-esque, all at once, that’s the last straw, and her confusion turns to frustration.

“ _What is going on_ ?” she bellows, arms outstretched to point both into the restaurant and out to the street, neck catching as it yanks back and forth. “ _Why are you all here_?”

Miyako’s frozen in mid-sprint between two other tables (patrons plastered to their chairs in terror), chest heaving, and Takeru’s looking past Jyou’s shoulder to catch his brother’s blank stare. “Uh, you’re, uh—you’re alone?” the older blond stammers in the end, demonstrating the kind of inarticulate speech that only further alarms Mimi for its rarity.

“Can we help you all with something?” asks Keisuke, glancing around the mismatched group.

And now Jyou’s speaking, or wheezing, really, “Uh—we just, we thought you might…I mean, this is a really nice restaurant, isn’t it?”

The waiter, recovering his senses at that remark, clears his throat, and Mimi winces again. “What does that have to do with anything?” she snaps back at him, and he throws Yamato a pleading look in response, slamming his own mouth shut.

Yamato’s rubbing his face, now with composure, and glances at Daisuke, who’s on his feet again. “Nothing,” Yamato answers, after an internal debate, exchanging a practiced look with Hikari, who sneaks a concerned one with Koushiro, too.

Sora offers up a bright, nervous smile, fingers digging through her cropped red hair to pat away the frizzy strands. “We just heard that you were taking your parents here.”

“Yeah,” says Miyako, interrupting. “And we thought we’d—that we’d come—,”

“—to see you—,” adds Ken.

“—eat,” finishes Daisuke, and Yamato closes his eyes, fists clenched at his sides.

Iori notices the tense movement and steps in, holding his chin up with incredible seriousness in such surreal circumstance. “But we see that you’ve just sat down—,”

“—so maybe we’ll come back—,” interrupts Hikari.

“—another time,” says Jyou.

Everyone stares at everyone else, and Mimi takes a deep breath. “No one is going anywhere,” she says in a tone so uncharacteristic that even Daisuke’s smile slips, “until someone tells me _what the_ _hell_ is going on.”

Satoe shakes her arm. “Mimi, darling, language!”

“Mama, this is _not_ the time.”

Miyako clears her throat, glasses slipping down her nose, “Okay, this was clearly a huge misunderstanding, so we’re going to go.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Mimi hisses. She looks at each of them, settling on Sora at last. “ _Explain_.”

She presses her lips together with a pause. “It’s not what you think.”

“Unless you were thinking you were getting engaged today,” laughs Daisuke, and it’s Takeru’s turn to close his eyes.

Satoe shrieks again, “Oh, my God—oh, my God—,” only stopping when Keisuke claps his free hand over her mouth.

“Oooooooh, this was a bad idea,” whimpers Miyako, and Ken’s eye is forming some kind of permanent twitch as he echoes in an embarrassed murmur, hands wringing, “A very bad idea.”

“What were we thinking again?” Jyou asks Sora, who holds up a hand, her eyes not once drifting from Mimi, who, remarkably, has not moved, breathed, or said a word after Daisuke’s failure at levity.

Sora steps forward, cautious, as Keisuke holds his daughter’s shoulders and Satoe’s fingers dig deeper into her arm. “Mimi, listen, okay? All that happened—okay, listen— _all_ that happened was that Koushiro saw something in his bag last night, and it just—it raised just a few questions for us, okay, and you know, with your parents’ visit and this _really_ nice restaurant and how fast things were going between you two and…I mean, we didn’t really know what to think, so Koushiro called me, and then I called Yamato, and he called Hikari, and she called Miyako, who called me again, and then I called—,”

“I think we can skip that part,” says Takeru under his breath, and now Iori’s chiming in, attempting to calm the dissolving situation: “Mimi, we promise, it’s not what you think.”

Her breath is light, and faint, and she’s relieved, exactly then, to feel her parents’ hands still supporting her. She looks to Sora, unblinking, glossy pink lips forming her next words with care. “So…you’re telling me…that I was supposed to get engaged today…and you all came here…to stop him?”

No one speaks.

And then: “Well, _technically_ ,” offers Daisuke, trying to smile his way through her poisonous gaze, “we came here to stop _you_ ,” and Ken jabs his hand into his friend’s still aching back, tic returning.

“But,” says Satoe, as though just now realizing the lack of movie-like magic to her life, “but it’s only us here.”

“Before you all came,” corrects Keisuke, not particularly bothered by the continuing brunch saga, even as the waiter looks ready to begin bothering them about it himself.

“I need to leave,” says Mimi, snapping out of her dreamlike state and returning, reeling, crashing, back again. She yanks herself from her parents’ grasp at last, both hands combing back her long hair, palms to her temples.

“Sweetheart, your brunch—,” tries Keisuke.

“I can’t eat—,”

“There has to be something on the menu that’s edible, dearest,” assures Satoe (the waiter tuts, insulted). “And you can’t say yes on an empty stomach, darling—,”

“I’m not, I’m not _saying_ _anything_ —I just need—I need to leave,” she gasps, staggering forward, and Koushiro leaps around the tables to dive for her purse on her chair, holding it out to her.

“Let me take you,” offers Jyou at once, “my car is just down the block—,”

“Mine’s here,” calls Takeru over the railing, “I can—,”

“I’m taking a cab,” Mimi thinks aloud, fumbling with her purse.

To which Yamato says, “I’ll call one—,” while Miyako interrupts, phone in hand, “ _I’ll_ call one,” at the same time that Iori raises his: “I called one.”

She only nods, floating her way through the still stunned restaurant, the chatter returning with the spectacle now seemingly at an end, and out the front door, emerging on the sidewalk where the others have gathered. She only shakes her head at them, refusing any other conversation, and when the cab draws up to the other side of the street, it's Hikari who’s leaning into the passenger door to let the driver know to go as fast as he legally can and Takeru who’s protesting Satoe’s offer with a polite, “Oh, no, Mrs Tachikawa, we really couldn’t stay—,”

“But after such energy, dears, you need to keep the blood flowing,” Satoe is saying now, fanning herself and holding onto the back of her chair for support. “Such drama, honestly! Where does she get this from, Keisuke?”

He only tosses his wife a flustered look, equally unable to imagine the source of such behavior, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think I need to order something soon, sweetheart. We all should, I mean, _good grief,_ what _was_ that?”

“We can’t impose—,” says Koushiro, and Miyako’s nodding in agreement, still eyeing the taxi, “We really couldn’t.”

“Well, I don’t know, I could probably eat,” suggests Daisuke.

“Oh, but I’m afraid there’s not anything with cream cheese on this menu, dearest,” Satoe tells him in a voice reserved for dimwitted elderly pets, and whatever reaction he has to such a remark is lost to Mimi when the taxi door closes.

The ride is a short one, barely long enough for her to begin sorting through her racing thoughts. She pays the fare and steps out, moving by habit to enter the building, wait for the elevator, walk down the hallway, and press the doorbell. The dread of what will answer makes her stomach twist, and suddenly she wants nothing more than to turn and run again.

But then the door opens, and then he’s standing there.

“Mimi?”

He hadn’t been expecting her, that’s clear enough. The tattered lounge pants and stained T-shirt are one clue; the scattered gaze and unkempt bed-hair, the other. Her gaze settles there, on his hair, blank. It looks sticky and stiff, like he’d fallen asleep with a little shaping mousse still in it, and there’s a few shimmers of lint trapped in the shadowy stubble coating his chin. It’s all around sort of unattractive, the longer she looks at it. And the longer she looks at it, at the messy curls and scratchy beard and wrinkled clothes, the greater her desire to just clean him up, shape him up, make him grow up out of this mess and everything that repulses her about how terrible he looks and how little he cares about it, and how much it should bother her that of all the people and all the men—

She blinks, lightheaded, and tries to remember she’s supposed to be angry.  

Taichi pulls the door open wider, but she doesn’t move. He’s animated, cheerful if still a little groggy from being woken up at the preposterously early hour of one o’clock on a weekend afternoon. “Brunch over already?” Then he jokes, “Why, what’d your parents make out on this time, the table?”

She blurts out, “The sink.”

He’s impressed in a sick sort of way. “Wait— _really_?”

“No, the sink, the sink!” and she shoves him into the apartment, voice climbing higher with every emotional push. “I can’t yell at you when you look like this! Why can't you ever care about how you look!” Her hand is on his collar, the other wrestling her purse off her shoulder and throwing it the ground, and she drags him by the shirt down the hallway. He’s gripping her wrist but her hold is stronger, staggeringly so, his T-shirt choking at his neck as she yanks him, throws him, into the bathroom. “Mimi—,” he tries to gasp, grunting when his face collides with the porcelain rim of the sink, the tap jamming into his brow bone until he manages to brace himself with his hands on the edge of the bowl. Then the water turns on, and the fear shifts into high gear. “Mimi, what are you—?” but the rest of his protests are drowned in the pooling puddle in the sink, her fingers tangled deep into his messy hair as they hold the back of his head under the tap. He slams his palms against the basin, pushing himself back up, soaked hair plastered to his forehead and around his ears in a moppish way, and his neck twists back so his thunderstruck expression can find her own—until she puts both hands on the back of his neck and shoves him down again.

“Mimi!” he yells louder this time, wrestling back from her, swatting his hands in her general direction. “What the hell are you doing?”

But she’s looking at him rubbing at his eyes, sputtering up mouthfuls of liquid through a hacking cough, the front of his T-shirt now drenched through. Water pours down his face and through his hair, tufts and curls springing and sagging in uneven direction or slicked back in knots and twists, and both hands are pushing the hairs from his forehead, a little shaky from the shock, while he ogles her through wet lashes.

She launches at him, panicked, “Why is this making it worse? You look just as cute wet— _it’s not fair_!”

He ducks away, arching from her outstretched hands. “No— _no_! Woman, you stay away from me—,” and he leaps back, his shoulders knocking into the door frame.

She yells back, “Turn around, okay? Just turn around!”

“What—,”

“Just do it!”

“Okay, okay!” And he staggers into submission, one hand pressing against the doorpost to the open bathroom and the other still trying to fix the soaked, moppy mess of his hair. “ _Fuck_ , Mimi—what the hell did you eat at brunch?”

Her face crumbles for a minute, and then she’s squaring her shoulders, slamming her palm onto the faucet to turn the water off. “The ring, Taichi,” she spits out at last, chest heaving.

“Rings of what?”

“No, not rings of food— _the_ ring, okay?”

He stops, shoulders stiff, and then, as though coming back to life, he demands, voice hoarse and lumpy, “What—what ring?”

She shakes her head, shutting her eyes. “They all saw it—or heard about it—or whatever they did, and then they all came to—,”

“Wait, who came? Where?” He shakes his head, using his forearm to wipe the last dribbles of water from his face.

“Our friends, Taichi,” she says, wailing the drama of it all. “Our boundary-phobic friends came to crash a perfectly pleasant brunch with my parents to stop me from saying _yes_!”

“Mimi—,” and he tries turning around again.

“No, stay, listen!” She throws up her hands, arms flailing, “It worked, okay? What they—what happened, it just—it made me realize that I—I wouldn’t have said it. I couldn’t say yes.”

His breath hitches, and the world shifts.

“You…wouldn’t?”

“No.” Her arms sink to her sides, fists clenched into little balls at her waist. “I…couldn’t.”

His fingers twitch, like he wants to move, except he doesn’t, frozen with his back still towards her.

Her voice falling to a whisper: “I wouldn’t have said yes.”

And, with disbelief, and everything short of hope, he asks, “Why…not?”

She holds her breath, her smile small, because she knows he can’t see how scared she is at that moment.

“Because how could I say yes to anyone but you?”

The silence is wide, and long, skipping through the years between them and all the broken roads that led to here.

He leans his head back, temple to the doorframe, and stays quiet.

Waiting for him to speak makes her uneasy, and so she stammers out, hand to her throat, “Why else I would be here right now?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, distracted, windless. “Maybe washing people’s hair is what your family does after brunch.” And then he’s bending over, face in his hands, shaking his head, recovering from the strange and unnerving lapse in his otherwise natural ability to think on his feet. He defers to humor instead, always. “They seriously all showed up at the restaurant? With your parents there and everything?”

She’s smiling, his sense of humor contagious. “No warning, absolute chaos. Takeru somehow hit Daisuke with his car in the middle of it all, too.” And this time he does lurch back around to goggle her, aghast, and Mimi’s giggling into her hands, reassuring him at once, “He’s okay, it sounds more dramatic than it was—but, yeah, they just—they all came running and…,” she trails off, shrugging her shoulders.

“Wow. They must—they must have really wanted you to say no.”

“They must have,” she agrees, not breaking his gaze.

“Can’t imagine why,” he says.

She doesn’t answer, because she doesn’t have to, and he knows.

His head is still leaned against the wall post, teeth pulling on his bottom lip, a thin trickle of water running from his ear and down his neck, tracing his skin the way she wants to, always. He starts slowly. “So, it’s a no.”

She nods.

“Because of me.”

“Well—me,” she corrects.

“But mostly me.”

“ _Partially_ —,” she keeps correcting, irritated, always, by the knowing way he smirks at her.

“Pretty sure that’s what you just said.”

“Pretty sure you heard wrong—,”

“Uh-uh, I heard you.” He closes the distance between them, thumb tracing the rise of her cheek. His touch settles there, in the dimple that kisses the corner of her mouth. “I waited years to hear you say it.”

Her smile disappears into his palm. “Years, is it? How very depressing.”

He steps closer. “Says the idiot who ran out on everyone we know to come here and smash me, so jury’s not exactly out on who the loser here is.”

She turns her cheek, brow arched. “Did you just…make fun of yourself for me?”

“What—no, I said—,”

“—that I’d be a loser if I wanted to—,”

“—the point is that you _do_ want to,” he interrupts, and then pauses, fingers stiff. “Right?”

“Are you asking me if I think of myself as a loser?”

He falters, the mental energy at work becoming the final straw on an already bewildering day. His pause stretches as his eyes thin, fixated on her serene expression. “I think I want to start over.”

Mimi grins, slipping arms around his neck and pulling herself even closer. “Good. That’s why I’m here.”

“Nah,” he says, leaning into her again, “that’s why you’re _here_.”

“Mm—?” and then she’s shrieking, a jet of water launching straight to her temple, the ice-cold shock making her slip back against the bathroom wall while her fingers grasp at his soaked sleeve in a desperate attempt to pull his hand off the shower handle, yanking him down with her as they collapse backwards over and into the filling tub. She’s wailing, “I want to start over! I want to start over!”, her fingers buried in the soaked-again tangles of his curls, whispered kisses singing into his mouth, and he’s laughing as they flail and thrash under the water, “So we’ll start over, we’ll start over,” pulling her close, kissing her tight, keeping one hand behind the back of her neck, so it’s only ever his arm that hits the edge.

  
_She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there is was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner. The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her._ (“Peter Pan” by J. M. Barrie)

**Author's Note:**

> This was from DIGIOTPWEEK 2017, and is part of my effort to bring back my old stories.


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